


cyclamen

by blawky



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: Black & White | Pokemon Black and White Versions, Pocket Monsters: Black 2 & White 2 | Pokemon Black 2 & White 2 Versions
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2020-06-26 13:03:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19768771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blawky/pseuds/blawky
Summary: The cyclamen is beautiful and poisonous. It is considered to be related to death, and to the idea that all good things must inevitably end.Unova has fallen to the eccentric and cruel Ghetsis. An organization known as the Order of the Titans, in charge of documenting and safeguarding individuals wielding the power of the Legendary Pokémon—individuals commonly known as Titans—dares to fight back.(Primarily canon divergent, but is informed by ideas primarily from the games and occasionally from the manga. Inspiration for the idea of a Legendary-bond and other such affinity bonds comes loosely from the comic known as And The World Will Turn To Ash, by surfacage.)





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> In this setting, there are two different types of "bonds" between man and Pokémon: one is, as mentioned before, the bond that exists between a Legendary Pokémon and its chosen Titan. 
> 
> The second is a bond of birth—often referred to an affinity bond in this story—wherein a Trainer has a preternatural disposition towards a certain type of Pokémon, and has abilities that often mimic the abilities of that type. Gym Leaders are often the most powerful of this sort of bond, and it is extremely rare, though not as rare as the Titan bond.
> 
> This chapter is separated into two separate prologues, with three different characters holding the PoV. The first prologue is set roughly two decades before the events of this story itself, and the second prologue is roughly a year and a half before the story's beginning.

_ soot _

Cloyingly sweet odors wafted through the center of the manor. Gilded Persians—Giovanni was ostentatious as ever, it seemed—stared, unblinking, at the mire of masked men and women mingling. The hall was full of a subtle din, though to Sabrina’s senses, it was a crashing cacophony of thoughts. Or, at least, it would have been, had she been unskilled. 

But she was not, of course, and so a subtle din it remained. Sabrina felt naked without Alakazam at her side, but it was a necessity, as was the mask covering her features, depicting an Espeon’s cunning mien. 

_ Necessity.  _ Sabrina’s lip curled at the word. Joining Rocket had been a necessity, Koga had said, and so they two, and Surge, much to Sabrina’s dismay, had slipped into the ranks unseen. They’d contemplated bringing the others in, but most of them would leave too many loose ends. 

She had no idea where Koga was tonight, but that hardly mattered. The two of them maintained a facade of constant bickering and petty arguments—it made it much easier to avoid suspicion, and much easier to push forth their ideas. After all, when they agreed on something, it  _ had  _ to be the correct path, because they were at each other’s throats all the time.

Sabrina might have smiled at the thought of tugging all those Rocket executives along like Growlithes on a leash, but tonight was not a night for smiling.

Surge, on the other hand, was now sauntering directly towards her. He’d done nothing to camouflage his... _ unique  _ appearance, aside from smearing a Zapdos mask over his face like it could veil the obnoxious yellow hair spiking from his head. 

_ Zapdos, _ she thought idly.  _ The nerve of this man… _

“My lady,” came Surge’s voice like a freight truck came over gravel, “it pleases me to see you in good health.” He took her hand in a dramatized motion, pressing a kiss to the glove. Sabrina stared daggers at him. 

“Surge.” The man blinked—he always did get some strange kick out of being called Lieutenant—and looked upwards. 

“I trust your night is well?” Her eyes rested upon his, and while many had labeled Surge’s gaze one that could make boulders tremble, Sabrina had always matched his tit for tat. 

“It is.” Surge straightened, face coming close to Sabrina’s. To an onlooker, it might have looked as though he meant to plant a perfunctory kiss upon it, but instead, his voice—as mellifluous as a train loudly honking at midnight—whispered into her ear.

“They haven’t found them,” was all that the man said, but Sabrina tensed, before nodding minutely. In seconds, she devolved into the giggles of a bashful lover, forcing a crimson tinge to her cheeks. She and Surge had played this game for so long, it was practically second nature. The lieutenant grinned coyly at her and poked her nose. In her periphery, she saw a black-clothed man, chest labeled with a scarlet R, nod to himself, gaze drifting away from the supposed lovers. 

Surge broke away from Sabrina with another wink, and Sabrina chuckled just the appropriate amount. She did still have appearances to maintain, Surge’s vapid fantasies be damned. The man’s mind was practically a whorehouse in its own right, from what little Sabrina had allowed herself to peer upon. 

Sabrina straightened out after the shock-haired Gym leader left. Giovanni’s eyes and ears hadn’t found the bonded yet. Any of them, it seemed. Two at once was almost unheard of—it had been unheard of in Sabrina’s time, at least—but Caitlin had flown in all the way from Unova to inform them with deadly certainty that she had seen two children take up the bond in a vision. Caitlin had been wrong a handful of times for as long as Sabrina had known her, and the Psychic-bound Trainer rarely pronounced things of this magnitude without absolute certainty.

But if Giovanni hadn’t found them, how would Sabrina? A manservant brought her a tray with red wine on it, and she accepted it wordlessly. Grimsley was looking, they said, but could Grimsley really find them in the entire span of Kanto? 

She took a sip of wine. Sabrina had spent so long building her way up to this moment, and now it was here, and she could not help but feel a distinct sense of trepidation. If Giovanni found out…

Caitlin was infinitely more prone to foreseeing the future than Sabrina—Sabrina’s gift laid elsewhere, but they were no less expansive for it—yet Sabrina had done it a few times. Mostly in dreams.

The night she and Giovanni first met, one-on-one, she’d had a single vision. Caitlin called them Foreseeings. Sabrina had foreseen a forked road. On one side of the road, she knew without seeing, Sabrina, Koga, Surge, Oak, all the others, lay dead and forgotten. On the other, they survived. But the roads were twisted, gnarled with woods and magic, and she hadn’t seen anything but that.

Sabrina cradled the glass. Her mind’s eye showed her only an image of her unmoving inside an abandoned warehouse, blood leaking from every orifice on her face. 

“Duchess.” Sabrina nearly jumped out of her skin at the voice. When she turned, however, she was ever so grateful that she had not.

Giovanni stared at her, bereft of any mask, brown hair neatly cropped to his skull. He smiled at her over his glass of champagne. 

“Giovanni,” she returned coolly. Sabrina rarely used honorifics—even with Giovanni. 

“You look radiant as ever, my lady. It is good of you to join us.” Giovanni’s eyes reminded Sabrina of some sort of big cat, and indeed, the entire demeanor of the man suggested a lounging predator awaiting something intriguing to strike at. Sabrina was not scared of him—there was little to scare her, anymore—but she did keep a healthy caution around the leader of Team Rocket. 

He, like so many others, was quite interested in the identity of the new bonded Trainers. According to Caitlin, Ghetsis and his Team Plasma had shown an interest in it as well—but the Unovan branch of the Order was already working to negate his efforts. They’d sent two operatives to Kanto, as well: Grimsley, of the Elite Four, and Drayden, a powerful Dragon-type Trainer. Grimsley was presently searching for the bonded, as his affinity bond to Dark-types made him much more suited to sneaking. He was accompanied by Drayden when not in a city, but the man’s Dragon-types were more likely to draw attention than actually help Grimsley in the center of a metropolitan area. 

“Lost in thought again, my dear?” Giovanni’s voice brought her back to reality. All of Team Rocket seemed to believe Sabrina was prone to dissociation spells—that was true, occasionally—she had done naught to disabuse the notion. If people believed her not fully present, their tongues were often looser than they would be elsewise. Sabrina had learned that very quickly.

“My apologies,” she replied, ever calmly. A slip-up, no matter how minute, would catch Giovanni’s attention. It wasn’t very hard—Sabrina was a relatively serene person even in the midst of heated conflict—yet something about the task seemed almost insurmountable all the same.

Giovanni smiled at her, like a Seviper smiles at its dinner. “I see you and Lieutenant Surge are as close as ever.” The leader stepped beside her, hand coming to rest precariously close to hers. She knew what she’d find if she probed his thoughts.

“The lieutenant is not particularly intelligent,” Sabrina said with a wry smile, “but he does have a head for military tactic, I suppose, else you’d not keep him. I do not find him all that enjoyable, but he is amusing at times. Flirtatious to the extreme, of course.” 

The Rocket boss laughed, but it was strange, like a piano long since out of tune. “Acerbic as ever, Sabrina. Tell me, what do  _ you  _ think of this whole bonded affair?”

She tensed. Sabrina was a Psychic-bond—Psions, they were often called—but Giovanni bore no affinity bond that she knew of. It was a touchy subject.

“We place too much thought on the power of children, and not enough on the power of our own organization. But I do see the positives to obtaining the bonded children.”

Giovanni snorted. “And if they are not children? I’m so very  _ tired  _ of meddlesome children.” 

_ Of defeat, _ Sabrina thought he might have said. She was sure he thought it, even if she didn’t dare look in upon his thoughts.

“Then we place too much thought on the power of those that are not us all the same. It might even make more sense if they were children. The younger they are, the more malleable to aiding Team Rocket.” The words felt like ash upon her lips; poison spittle even as they were spoken. 

_ Necessity,  _ she murmured. Or was that someone else?

“Very true,” Giovanni mused. 

Sabrina paused, contemplative.

“Have you found any leads?” It was a risky question, at best, but it was the only chance she’d get. 

Giovanni paused, and Sabrina almost felt a stab of fear in her gut. 

“Nothing yet. We only know that the one bonded to Moltres is a female, but nothing more.” 

Sabrina might have laughed. Grimsley really  _ did  _ work faster than Rocket’s team, shocking as it seemed. 

“The last one was also a woman, wasn’t it?” Sabrina had known her well, but that was hardly anything to be reminisced upon now. Leave the ghosts to Phoebe and Shauntal, Koga always said. 

Perhaps she would.

“Yes. An insufferable woman, but very powerful. Moltres requires such of its bonded, I should think.”

Ilyena had told Sabrina at length what, exactly, Moltres required. 

_ A monster to hunt monsters, _ she recalled Ilyena describing herself as. An instrument of fiery vengeance. 

“Do you know which of the trio is bound to the other one?” Sabrina knew the answer, but she paused to look at Giovanni as she asked.

A vein in his forehead twitched, pulsated. “No,” he acquiesced. 

  
Sabrina suppressed a smile, pressing her glass to her lips. 

For a moment, she recalled Caitlin’s eerie words when Sabrina had spoken of her deathly Foreseeing. The woman’s Gothitelle had been beside her, eerie and hauntingly beautiful.

_ The world must be preserved. Whatever the cost, we shall bear it. Death lies ever on the horizon for us, Sabrina.  _

Sabrina shook it off, but in a strange way, Caitlin was right. If she died to protect their world, wasn’t that worth the price?

“Forgive me, Sabrina dear, but I must take my leave. I fear the party never stops.”

_ As must I,  _ she thought blandly. 

“Of course, Giovanni. See you soon.” The Rocket boss strode off in long, powerful steps, and Sabrina receded to the back of the gala. Surge and Koga would have already made their subtle exits, judging by the time. She was late.

She slipped out of the manor, black hair falling like a waterfall of pure ebony down past the small of her back. 

Two alerts pinged on her Pokégear—this one was a throwaway, with just contacts from the Order—both from Surge, asking where she was. 

She waited until she was far away from the manor and its security to open them.

A single, sarcastic reply later, Sabrina was silently removing the dress she’d worn into the gala. It was almost a shame to take it off—the thing was fine silk and was a beautiful pastel pink to match the color of the Psychics. 

Regardless, it came off, revealing a black, skin-tight bodysuit. Every member of the Order wore them when in the field—hers was patterned slightly with pink hues along the sides, just as Surge’s had yellow and Koga’s purple—even when doing mundane activities, as Sabrina was. 

Sabrina had left her motorcycle off to the side. It was a gift from Surge, ironically enough, and both she and Koga had received one. Nobody had seen her arrive on it, and the helmet covered her face, making it perhaps the only truly subtle way of leaving the area in anything short of an all-black car.

She climbed onto the motorcycle, voices buzzing in her head. Only some of them were her own.

She’d learned how to filter most of them out, but occasionally, a few slipped through—echoes of the thoughts of people she was around, or had been around for a long time. Some of them were Giovanni’s, she was sure, but she didn’t care to sift through them. He’d yielded anything he could have, anyways. Sabrina never dared to truly touch Giovanni’s mind when they were near each other, but she always had a knack for sensing when anyone—even him—was lying, or tiptoeing around the truth. 

It was convenient, sometimes. Other times, it ended with her knowing things she wished she didn’t. 

But that was long past, and she was long past due to be at their meeting spot. By Koga’s demand, they met in a house he’d bought in Fuchsia City, right near the edge of the city limits. 

The wind stirred itself along Sabrina’s face, and she exhaled. The motorcycle was silent as it crept out of the parking lot, and her face was veiled by the helmet around it. 

The stars watched, unblinking and unburdened, from their celestial heights. 

Hours away, a girl with flames for eyes watched the same stars as Sabrina, staring at their infinite depths. 

Sabrina looked up at them and wished for peace, for an end to all this.

The girl looked up and wished for freedom.

Neither would get what they wanted, in the end. Luck never worked out like that. 

—

The dice never stopped rattling in his head, but they seemed to be especially noisy inside the depths of Grimsley’s mind as he canted his gaze around the small house. It was in the middle of Viridian City, which Grimsley had quickly learned was a relatively unassuming town despite its proximity to the region’s Victory Road. He was due to meet a scientist tonight, someone who had been tracking the strange spike in heat signature from Mount Silver. Grimsley had a feeling it was the result of Moltres initiating a bond, but he wasn’t about to let that on.

So, here he was, hair gelled flat to his head, wearing a lab coat and fake glasses. Drayden sat in the bar next door, just in case aught went awry, but Grimsley was confident in his abilities. He still wasn’t sure why everyone had insisted he bring the man, but Grimsley didn’t mind the company.

A man bustled inside, carrying two separate laptops and wearing a too-small lab coat. He had stark blonde hair, the backs of it still sticking up, as though he hadn’t bothered to even _ glimpse  _ at a mirror, and his aquiline nose supported square glasses. Overall, he seemed rather sharply made, reminiscent of a Braviary. The dice kept rattling, and Grimsley fingered the card deck in his pocket. It was lucky, so he said. 

“Are you Doctor Lucan?” Grimsley questioned, peering at the man cautiously. He had positioned himself by the light switch, and if the birdlike blonde made any sudden movements, he’d flick them off and be done with this whole affair. As it was, he felt the shadows tingling at his side, whispering. 

“That’s me, yes! Hello. You must be Doctor Giima, right?” 

Grimsley smiled, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose and proffering his other hand for a shake. Doctor Lucan obliged. 

“Yes, that is me. Shall we begin?” He’d adopted a slight accent—Johtonian, of course—on Sabrina’s advice. 

Grimsley settled into one of the chairs in the house that Doctor Lucan had rented to study the spiking signatures. 

“Absolutely. You wanted to know more about the heat signatures, right?”

Grimsley nodded. “Indeed.”

Doctor Lucan furrowed a brow. “Can I ask why?”

He resisted the urge to blow out a hiss through his mouth. “That is somewhat classified,” Grimsley began, because technically it  _ was, _ “but it’s part of a study to help predict weather patterns in Johto and Kanto.”

“Is this for military work? I won’t support it, if so. Johto and Kanto have enough problems as it is without all of that.”

Grimsley smiled. “Believe me, Doctor Lucan, I want nothing at all to do with the military. This is purely for research.”

The doctor stared at Grimsley suspiciously, but then nodded. He keyed in a password to his laptop—it was too long to remember even if he wanted to—and swiveled the screen around. 

“The spike occurred two and a half weeks ago, as you can see. Temperatures on Mount Silver and around it shot up by an average of ten degrees in a fifty mile radius. On Mount Silver itself, meteorology reports say it spiked fifty degrees within an hour. At night.”

Grimsley frowned. That was  _ hot, _ even for a bonding. Maybe it really was something else, but the date lined up exactly with Caitlin’s vision. She’d never been wrong about something like this, and he doubted it would start now.

“Has there been any subsequent spikes?”

“Well, the hotter temperature lasted a whole day and a half before it subsided. After that, things mellowed out until...two nights ago, as you can see. It spiked by about twenty degrees again, though it was only five here in Viridian…” 

The entire thing was atrociously boring, and the only useful thing that it actually yielded was that the spike matched perfectly with Caitlin’s vision, and that there was no discernable pattern for the smaller spikes. Grimsley had never heard of a bonding taking a long amount of time, but then again, he’d never found himself in the middle of one. The spikes could be from the bonded Trainer being unable to withstand that much power. 

“Do you have a prediction when it will spike again?” 

Doctor Lucan blinked. “Judging by the weather patterns right before and after the spike, it seems totally random. One of the residents said they saw a bright orange...shape, in the sky, right when the temperatures spiked, but Moltres hasn’t been since for months. Not since…”

Grimsley held up a thin hand. They all knew what had caused Moltres and the other birds to recede into seclusion: all three bonded, who were heroes to the Kanto region, had just...vanished. No trace. The day it happened, storms of epic proportions buffeted Kanto. It had receded—eventually—but it was still a fresh wound for Kantonians, particularly those who had taken pride in their national heroes’ status. Most of the other regions didn’t really know of the concept of bonding—thanks to the Order—and even the Kantonians had a backwards perception. They thought the bonded in Kanto were just the most powerful Trainers with an affinity bond, like the one Grimsley had. 

They couldn’t be more wrong, of course, but Sabrina had never bothered trying to disabuse them of the notion. 

“So, it could be Moltres, but it probably isn’t. Right?”

“Right.”

“So it’s some sort of disturbance. How are you tracking them, if I might ask?” 

“I have trackers set up all the way up Mount Silver, stopping just a few miles short of the peak. Nobody’s gone up there lately.”

“Would you mind letting me peek at the data every day for a week or two?”

Doctor Lucan hesitated. Grimsley felt the shadows itching around him.

“..Fine, but you can’t tell anyone else what you see. I’m gonna publish my findings  _ myself, _ not be mentioned as some footnote in someone else’s bestseller.”

“..Right. Okay.”

The dice threw themselves at the walls of Grimsley’s skull, now.

“One more thing, Doctor Lucan.” 

The blonde, birdlike man swiveled from his laptop to look at Grimsley. Shadows painted his face, now, making him appear almost ghastly. It was an easy trick—he’d learned how to manipulate shadows years ago—but it always worked without fail. Doctor Lucan’s eyes went wide, practically bulging out of his skull, blue irises swallowed up by fear-filled pupils.

“If anyone asks,” Grimsley began, voice dribbling with power, “you didn’t share this data with anyone, alright?”

“Y-Yes. Of course.”

Grimsley rose to his feet, banishing the shadows to the corners of the room once more.

“Good. I’ll be back, Doctor Lucan. Have a good night.”

He smiled grimly down at the doctor, who was now shakily smiling back, and glided out of the house. Drayden was waiting in the bar over, and Grimsley was in the mood to swindle some idiots out of all their Poké. After he changed, of course.

Grimsley turned his eyes towards Mount Silver, and exhaled.

_ Stay safe, whoever you are. Everything might fall apart if anyone else gets their grubby hands on you.  _

* * *

  
  


_ ash _

Candela kicked a bit of rubble along the street, flanked by two Order-issued guardsmen, both with their Pokémon trailing them. One had a large Mightyena, and the other had a hulking beast of an Arcanine. Candela didn’t really see the need for bodyguards after so long, but Sabrina had stared daggers at her when she had done naught but  _ suggest  _ they leave her to go take care of more important duties.

_ “Nothing is more important than the preservation of a bonded, Candela.”  _

_ “I’m not weak, Sabrina.” _

_ “No, but you’re only one person.”  _

_ “Let me take Spark. This is a bonded issue.” _

_ “Spark is still in training.” _

Training. Candela scoffed. Spark was almost as strong as she was, now, though he never let it on. Publicly, Spark was still a research assistant—being groomed to take over a research team, just as Candela already had. Team Valor was hers, of course. 

In an effort to disguise themselves, the guardsmen flanking her were dressed like members of Team Valor, which was already bustling even without the Order’s support. These chumps would  _ never  _ be Valor, really, but she’d amuse them. 

“Leader Candela,” one of them called, and she turned, scarf billowing in the chill wind. It was the guard with the Arcanine—his name was something like Borus, if she remembered right. 

“We found traces of ice.” 

_ Articuno,  _ a strange voice crooned from the edges of her consciousness. Moltres.  _ Have you come out to play, sister?  _

Candela had learned long ago that the birds had no real concept of gender—at least not insofar as the world of man did—but referred to each other by gendered honorifics, from time to time. Articuno was often called sister by Moltres, but Zapdos was called cousin. Candela shook her head slightly, willing the voice quiet.

“Anything else? We can’t exactly go searching with the singular hint of  _ traces of ice, _ darling. Give me something to work with.”

The guardsman paused, lips thinning. He was about to offer up some witty retort, she was sure, but he stopped. Plainly, he wasn’t used to grunt work.

“We discovered a mark, but none of us can decipher its meaning.”

Memories that were not hers bled into her consciousness. Articuno marked its hunting grounds with a mark, something that neither Zapdos nor Moltres did. Both Zapdos and Moltres invited intruders to dare step into their hunting grounds, invited challengers to come be devoured whole. Articuno was a quiet god, a thing found only in the cold dark when you went looking for things that should not be. It marked its territory so that none who did not seek a challenge intruded, and marked that those whom found favor with the boreal entity might find shelter. 

Candela pushed past the man, heels clicking against the ground, and stepped to inspect the mark. Flareon followed at her heels. 

Sure enough, a strange mark lay in the center of the thing. It was unreadable to most—even to Candela, at first—but upon closer inspection, the shapes swirled into place. Only a bonded could read this, she knew somehow. Perhaps only one of those bonded to the three aerial deities of Kanto.

A bird set upon a field of icy blue stared out at Candela, red eyes unyielding and everburning. The Valor leader pressed a fingertip to it, felt a spark of power dribble through her. Ancient magics flickered within her—she shut her eyes for a moment and watched as her eyelids alighted in incandescence. Warmth plumed around her figure, and for a moment she was back upon the peak of Mount Silver, staring down the reckoning.

But then the vision shifted, and Candela was no longer staring at Moltres’s fiery beak. Instead, she saw only a waterfall of icy white hair, like a snowfall, saw eyes bluer than any crystal. She saw this same spot, only days before a bustling city block, being leveled by a shadowy figure with ice sprouting from its body. 

A loose bellow escaped the staggering figure, full of pain and sorrow. Candela recognized the bellow—she was sure she had howled like that too, in the first days of the bond. It was a traumatizing thing, and the price of it almost outweighed the benefits. 

She recalled the day of her bond suddenly, recalled an unending fire that had spiraled out of her veins, recalled a fire so hot it made the sun itself seem a chilled tundra. Pain, real as an organ, had split open her head, a voice she could only describe as petrifying slithering into her head.

_ “You have called,”  _ it had murmured,  _ “and I have answered. Your intentions matter for naught. What is done is done. The bond is complete.” _

“Leader Candela?”

The voice pierced her somnolent dwam, forced her from her musings. 

“I have what we need,” she said quietly, voice rich with the last remnants of godly power. “Go back to Sabrina. Tell her I’ll find the bonded myself.”

Borus stiffened. She took him in as he did so. He was a rather unimpressive man—his nose wasn’t big or small, his eyes a simple shade of deep brown, similar to her own and yet different in so many ways, his hair cropped low to his skull. Sucking in a deep breath, Candela could taste his lack of affinity bond, too. Another gift, as Moltres called them. Candela wasn’t sure what they could be called.

“My orders are to escort you until the bonded is located or we are recalled. Only Sabrina herself can override—”

She felt rage building up inside her. Maybe it was irrational, but she didn’t care much in the moment.    
  


“Your orders,” Candela began, allowing her irises to turn a burning orange, “are inconsequential. Do you know what a bonded can do? Have you ever seen one in action?”

  
Color touched Borus’s cheeks. “It doesn’t matter what I’ve seen. Orders are orders.”

She had to forcibly stop smoke from curling out of her nose, had to stop the transformation from going any further than it already had. Why wouldn’t he lay down and accept her words for truth?

Candela smiled all the same, though, her orange gaze never shifting. She knew what her eyes must look like, now, narrow pupils like a reptile’s peering at Borus from within irises the same shade as fire. 

“You’ll have to catch up, then,” she said simply, releasing Charizard from a Poké Ball at her waist. The hulking Dragon-descendant stared down at Borus, who was still uncowed. Maybe he could have passed for Valor after all.

“Leader Candela, I cannot abide this.” 

She laughed as she climbed atop Charizard.

“Then look away, darling,” she said flatly. Apprehension pounded in her skull—she knew if this man accompanied her to find Articuno, he’d die. Gruesomely, perhaps. Moltres whispered such things in her ear, and she believed it. 

_ Pride fills us,  _ the voice lamented,  _ yet what are we without it? Wind and words. Find my sister, daughter.  _

Borus looked as though he were going to say something further, before he pulled out his Pokégear and held it up to his face, scowling at Candela. 

“Go, Feu,” she murmured to the Charizard, and with a roar, the grand creature took off into the air. Borus glared up at the skies, as if he could pull down Charizard from its lofty heights with naught but a withering gaze. 

Her head throbbed. In truth, she had no idea where she was going—but she’d seen enough in the fleeting vision. The bonded, whoever that was, was  _ hurting. _ When Candela was close enough, she knew in the deepest, darkest corners of her mind that she would  _ feel  _ the other. She had felt Spark, but it was different. This...this was a fresh bond. It couldn’t have been forged more than a week ago, judging by the lamenting screams, and Caitlin had arrived only two days prior to inform them. 

_ Caitlin’s eyes glowing pure pink, Gothitelle at her side. The strange Pokémon seemed to emit a strange languor, and an eerie calm settled over the room. Caitlin leaked pellucid tears from her glowing eyes. _

_ “The one has become three,” she whispered, hands shaking, “the bond is complete. Soft as snowfall, sharp as ice. A broken tower lies, singular and alone. The white wolf, alone in its sorrow, seeks another.”  _

_ That strange, rosy gaze settled upon Candela.  _

_ “You, child of ember and dust. Find the one who weeps alone. Find the broken tower, polished and unburnt.”  _

Candela shook her head clear of the memory, willing the woman’s strange, sibilant voice from her mind. Caitlin spoke ever in riddles and strange words, and while the rest of the Order found great importance in them, they made Candela’s skin crawl. Spark’s, too. Something about her mile-wide gaze was disconcerting. 

She couldn’t recall a broken tower. There were some ruins in Kanto, but nothing like that. 

_ But Caitlin was sure of a broken tower… _

A memory that was not her own slid onto her mind’s eye. Icy winds that could not be there in truth buffeted her skin, harsh and puckering. 

_ Islands rising from the depths. A castle, once great, collapsing into the seas.  _

Candela shuddered. The broken tower…Could it be on Seafoam Islands? It was possible, she supposed, but all that water wasn’t exactly  _ inviting  _ to Candela. Still, she would do what must be done. She just wished Spark were the one going to those islands, not her. 

With a nudge, Candela urged the Charizard towards the Seafoam Island, though they were a good few hours off. Candela couldn’t quite make out their silhouette, but she knew the general direction they lay in. 

  
Even if she didn’t, some preternatural sense drew her there, as though missing a limb. Another, less severe sense drew her towards Saffron City, towards the skyscrapers and glamour and metropolitan life that lay within it. It was Moltres, calling out to its brethren, Articuno and Zapdos. Spark, the Zapdos-bonded, was still training in Saffron. The bonded were taught in everything from self-defense to Pokémon strategy to learning how to wield their abilities best, though the last one required some personal introspection, as they had no bonded stationed in Saffron. She’d met some, though, and had a suspicion about others—but the Order was tight-lipped with information it did not care to divulge. 

The first bonded besides Spark that she had met had been the Dialga-bonded from Sinnoh. She was a strong, imposing woman with shock-white hair falling to her hips. Her name had been Mara, or something of the like, and she had hardly noticed Candela when she visited Sabrina. 

Sabrina was head of the Order in Kanto, but Candela had quickly realized she still had someone she reported to. She’d never met the woman—Cynthia, her name was—but all reports said she was a force to be reckoned with. Cynthia wasn’t the founder of the Order of the Titans, but she’d expanded its reach far beyond what it had been when she’d ascended to the upper echelons of the organization. Nobody had ever mentioned whether or not Cynthia was a bonded, but she almost assuredly was. If she wasn’t, there was no way she didn’t at least have an affinity bond. 

Charizard swooped low over the terrain, and Candela watched it pass below her. She could handle a bit of water, even if it was less than preferable. 

Stroking her hand along her Charizard’s back, Candela recalled her first meeting with Sabrina, fiery-eyed and just shy of thirteen.

_ “Do I get a choice?” Candela had asked, scrappy and flame-like. _

_ “You always have a choice,” Sabrina had replied, in that same cool, neutral tone she always used.  _

_ Candela tensed. _

_ “I can only hope that you make the correct one.” _

Sabrina never gave anyone a choice, really. She was the smartest person Candela knew, always pushing people around the boards that she dreamed up in her head. Candela resented it, on some level, but Sabrina always got her way. Surge had said it was just the way of the world. A woman like Sabrina didn’t get where she was without some intellect.

_ And her skills, _ Candela thought glumly. She’d seen Sabrina in action only once, but it was enough to make her at least somewhat cautious around the woman. Candela could take Sabrina in a regular fight, but Sabrina had more trickery than even Grimsley, though she wasn’t too keen to go up against the Dark-bond herself. 

Charizard swooped low over the world, dipping and bobbing through the clouds. The Flame Pokémon swiped through the clouds like they were naught but—well, clouds, actually. 

Seafoam lay only a few hundred more miles ahead. They would reach it by nightfall, Candela was sure, and the thought made her shiver with unbidden chill. 

_ Sister is cold, like the corpses adrift on the lonesome sea. Be wary.  _

The voice came without warning or preamble, and even thirteen years later, Candela found a headache forming in her temple. She was as used to Moltres’s presence in her mind as anyone in her position might be, was used to the preternatural powers it offered her. Those sharing her affinity to the Fire-type could perhaps sympathize, but even the most awesome of their powers paled in comparison to hers, for better or for worse. She had been born with no such inborn talent, though her brothers both had, and it had been a subject of much jealousy.

Now…

_ Now you will make kings weep,  _ a dim part of her mind remembered. Those had been the first words Moltres had uttered once their bond had been completed, once she was marked as a Titan until the end of her days. 

_ “Are you afraid of me?” Moltres was bigger than any house she’d ever seen, eyes larger than even the tallest human. They were pure blue, icy and full of all the things Candela had ever feared. _

_ Candela’s legs shook, but she remembered her mother telling her never to let the world see her sweat. She was Candela Pendragon, after all. _

_ “No.” _

_ Moltres’s laugh was mirthless. _

_ “Perhaps you should be.”  _

Candela had heard many things in her time in the Order about how children Titans often fared. The last child to bond with Moltres had been just before Ilyena, a boy of ten—just a few months older than Candela herself. He’d incinerated himself in the first year of his bond, leveling an entire city block as he expanded. The damage would have been worse, if not for Sabrina and Iraya, a Water-type bond and one of Sabrina’s closest confidantes. 

_ “You’ll fare better, of course. I know it.” Iraya’s smile had been kind, but a promise lingered behind her words, a promise that she would ensure that if Candela could not control herself, she would not allow the wanton destruction of before to occur once more. _

Thankfully, Candela had not met with the same fate, and she now had complete control of her strange abilities—for the most part. When particularly emotional, Moltres’s raw power often bubbled out from her fingertips without her consent or knowledge. If her emotions were strong enough, Sabrina said, Moltres could merely overtake her body entirely, wrench control from her and make her dance along a string. 

The thought sent another chill up Candela’s spine, even though she knew precautions had been taken to ensure that would never happen. Sabrina never spoke in certain terms of the past, but her vague hints were enough for Candela to deduce that similar situations had occurred before, situations where Titans had spiraled out of control, had their control subsumed by a beast born when the world was still young. 

Charizard dipped low again, and Candela could see the beginnings of Seafoam ahead. The islands were a complete maze to someone without a guide, and Candela was severely lacking in that department.

Lorelei knew them like the back of her hand, but Lorelei was on assignment at the moment, allegedly searching for Articuno the same as Candela was. Only, Candela had never been assigned to seek out Articuno’s bonded, she had merely elected to. A whim had taken her this far. 

She could already imagine Sabrina’s fury. Sabrina terrified her far more than any of the other Order members—even Lorelei’s icy anger was nothing compared to the quiet black rage of Sabrina. When she was truly angry, she was a sight to behold, a terrifying and dazzling force of nature. Candela had seen it a few times, but never had it been directed at her.

The first time, Team Rocket had attempted to seize Spark right from under their clutches. Sabrina had unleashed the full breadth of her psychic powers onto the poor Rocket members.

They’d been dead before they could even scream, their bodies eviscerated by blades they could neither see nor comprehend. A Psion ignored the laws of probability, shirked them entirely as though a mischievous schoolyard boy foregoing the rules of roughhousing, and Sabrina was a master Psion if ever there was one. She was not as skilled in Foretelling—the uncanny gift that Caitlin seemed full to the brim of—but her abilities elsewhere could make anyone lose their lunch. 

She’d never hurt Candela, of course. Sabrina cared for every member of the Order deeply, and only ever directly punished traitors and liars, and she would never even dream of harming a Titan aligned with the Order. Like it or not, they were a commodity—and one the Order could scarcely stand to lose, with the world in the state it was in.

They had beaten back Team Rocket, but Kanto and Johto were still licking their wounds from the affair. Now, whispers carried all the way from Unova spoke of another like Team Rocket, only a thousand times worse, a team corrupted from its past ideals. Candela had heard of Team Plasma, an extremist environmental group, but never in such a horrific way. She had learned that their previous leader—N—had either mysteriously vanished or been killed, and a man named Ghetsis had taken over for the green-haired king of Team Plasma. 

  
But the issues of Unova were hardly her issues. Right now, she had to find Articuno’s bonded before anything undue could happen to the Titan. They could finally complete the trio, finally safeguard Kanto against a corrupted Titan. Candela shivered to think of the consequences if even one of them was indoctrinated to harm the people of the world, not protect them.

Chill winds stung her face as Charizard’s massive wings bit through the clouds. The Flying-type Pokémon turned what would typically be a days long journey into one of several hours, instead, but he would tire soon. 

Candela hissed out a breath through her teeth. They’d make it to Seafoam, but only just, and she hadn’t brought any other Flying-types with her. So much for a quick escape.

_ You are flame and splendor. What fear have you of ice?  _

Moltres’s voice came unbidden once more, the nascent god’s whispered breaths her only constant companion. 

“This is my fate,” she murmured aloud to nothing in particular.

_ But can fate not be broken? _

Seafoam drew ever nearer, and Candela felt something like trepidation forming in the pit of her stomach, like a rotten peach pit. 

She had nothing to fear from Articuno, yet she still felt fear. Candela was the strongest Titan of the group, a fact which would not be changed by the addition of this next bonded, yet still, she would be alone in this.

_ You are not alone,  _ the voice said with a husky laugh,  _ I am here with you. _

The clouds parted about her as Charizard swooped low. Her Pokégear chimed with messages, likely from Sabrina. She didn’t dare look at them, not yet. 

And suddenly, Seafoam Islands laid right before her, glittering and expansive. The islands were as cold as ever, Candela grimly thought. 

As she dismounted Charizard, Caitlin’s final warning rung through her head, ominous and strange.

_ “Be wary, Candela Pendragon.” _

_ “What did you see, Caitlin?” _

_ Caitlin’s gaze had been distant, for a moment, hints of fear touching the icy depths.  _

_ “Nothing,” she whispered.  _ __  
  


Candela bit back a shiver. She wasn’t scared of Seafoam Islands—it was all ice, and she was built to destroy ice. Nascent fire lingered in her veins, ever screaming to get out. 

She put a foot down on the icy dirt surrounding the islands. Even from here, she could  _ feel  _ the tug at her soul that denoted another Titan, and close. 

_ Sister,  _ that sibilant voice whispered.  _ Find the Titan, child.  _

Candela walked towards the entrance to the cave, cold licking her face. Charizard hung beside her, but she paused, pulling a Poké Ball from her hip. In a flash of red, the Pokémon returned to its residency inside the contraption, leaving Candela alone. 

She huffed out a breath, fog curling out of her mouth like smoke. 

Something felt... _ off. _ Enough to make her pause before crossing into the cave mouth itself, darkness stretching outwards like an eldritch appendage. She was a creature of flame and light. Why was she petrified in the face of this icy darkness? A shadow hung in the air, real as any whispered autumnal wind. 

But she was no coward. Duty laid before her. She would not shirk it. Not even here, in this strange place. 

_ Beware, _ Moltres screamed, unbidden and undesired,  _ beware. Death lingers evermore. Beware. BEWARE! _

Candela gritted her teeth, haphazardly weaving her scarf around her face. It was ornamental more than anything—the cold scarcely touched her, even in this place. Being the living embodiment of a fiery deity tended to do that.

Snow crunched beneath her feet as she moved, boots digging into the icy landscape. She pushed inside the cave, allowing the smallest of flames to coalesce upon her palm, casting ghastly shadows about the cave. The dark figures danced in circles around the cave, given form by the light of her fire. 

Strangely, there were no Pokémon lingering behind corners or hiding behind rocks. A cold silence hung in the air, shadows stretching far too long to be wholly natural. Candela couldn’t quite shake the feeling that she was being watched by someone, some _ thing _ . It wasn’t the same tingling in the back of her neck she felt when a Titan was near—this was stranger, more eldritch. Something wicked lingered here, but she couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was. 

_ Watching, warning, winding. Leave. Leave this place. Leave. LEAVE!  _

A chill crawled up Candela’s spine as Moltres babbled, and not from the chill. She had never known the pyric deity to be aught but collected and terrifying. Now, however, the great god of fire was a babbling mess, and it left Candela more afraid than any cold threats the winged mirage of Kanto could have made.

Suddenly, she felt it. A shift. Tingling in the back of her neck.

_ Sister, sister, sister, sister. What fate has befallen you, sister?  _

_ FIND HER! _

Candela moved quickly, then, steps taking her down the winding, puzzling caverns of the expansive cave system that was Seafoam Island. She tried to pay no mind to the skeletons against the walls, peering into the endless depths before them, bereft of eyes and yet all-seeing.

_ Lo, lo. The madman dances on graves of ice. Shadows that do not fear the first soft touch of flame. Lo, lo, I never sleep. I never dream.  _

She tried to shake the voice from her head. As a child, she’d been subject to every whim of Moltres’s psychic babbling, but she had trained herself since. Yet it was no use.

_ FIND HER! _

Candela was running, now, footfalls echoing across the walls. She had snuffed out the flame on her palm, now, relying purely on the preternatural instincts that guided her, even in the darkest of shadows, towards her goal. Articuno. 

_ Sister. _

She ran until her lungs felt fit to burst, winding in a circle, down, then up, then to the side, then down, then up, then to the left, then down, then up, then—   
  
A light. First it was blue, and then it seemed to be touched by the faintest hints of red, then black, then purple. Candela froze.

Ahead, a figure lay kneeling upon the ground, ice white hair falling like a snowy waterfall about them. Blue light flowed out of them, cyanic ichor pooling in a funnel into—

_ SISTER! _

A man stared cruelly up at Candela, azure light puddling in the palm of his hand as he drew it out from the figure, who was now too weak even to kneel, collapsing into a supine position and twitching. Fire flared in the edges of Candela’s vision, unbidden but not wholly unwelcome. She took a dangerous step forward, and the man smiled lightly, one eye hidden by red glass. 

“So nice of you to join us, Moltres,” the man began, and Candela stared at him. Most Titans had an aura, some sort of marking about them that denoted them as what they were. Even those bearing affinity bonds tended to have something to mark them as other, and even the smallest living creature held an aura—if you knew how to look for it. 

This man, however, had nothing of the sort. He was a void. 

“Release her.” Candela’s voice boomed with voices that were not her own. Fire licked her face, coating her body. It began to sear her clothes, but she paid no mind to that.

A soft, horrible smile trickled along his features. “Articuno? Oh, no. I think I’ll keep her.”

  
  


“No,” Candela said simply, fire in her every word. “I don’t think you will.” Who was this man to seize her quarry? The supine figure was a Titan, plainly, and Titans belonged with the Order. That was the way of the world. 

She pointed a hand forward, flames already swirling around it. A ball of fire the size of her head lobbed towards the man, incandescent against the slick dark walls of the icy caverns. 

Just as it appeared as though it were going to burn him, however, it just...stopped. Shadows clung to it, suffocating it. 

The man tilted his head, the gesture avian, and peered at the ball of fire. 

“You’re strong,” he remarked, and the fire winked out, “but I was hoping for more of a challenge.” He began to chuckle. 

She snarled. “You want a challenge? I’ll give you it and more. Release Articuno.”

The strange man raised a gloved hand skywards and brought his thumb to his middle finger. A sickening snap resonated through the caves, and suddenly, it was as though the shadows themselves unfolded, revealing thirteen men and women dressed in head-to-toe black, silver patterning criss-crossing their chests. 

“Do try to keep up, Titan. I’d hate for the game to end so soon.”

Suddenly, all thirteen of the figures were rushing towards her, and flames danced across her entire body, burning through her clothing. An icy blueness seeped into her gaze, and in the corner of her eye, she saw the man and Articuno’s bonded disappear into the shadows, swallowed by a swirling vortex of darkness.

The figures charged forward all the same, ever faster. 

_ Moltres, _ she pleaded. The god’s vengeful screams ripped through her throat as the pyric deity took a hold of her. 

And the world turned black. 

  



	2. Chapter II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In Ghetsis's new Unova, justice is a mirage. 
> 
> Territories Currently Under Plasma Control: Aspertia City, Nuvema Town, Accumula Town, Castelia City, Nacrene City, Striaton City, Black City, Undella Town, Floccesy Town, Virbank City.
> 
> Icirrus, Opelucid, Nimbasa, and Mistralton stand alone in defiance of the pretender-king Ghetsis. The search for Gym Leader Burgh begins in earnest. Colress contemplates his options.
> 
> (Cyclamen is a verse that draws some inspiration from the Pokémon manga (Pokémon Special Adventures) and the webcomic And The World Will Turn To Ash, created by surfacage on Tumblr.)

Cold was perhaps the temperature Colress found most solace in. It was a thing of abstraction: it didn’t quite exist, not really, but it was felt all the same. Cold was merely the absence of heat, an extraction from circumstance. 

He might have stopped to ponder more, but there was work to be done, as ever. The scientist had been in high-demand, as of late. Neo Team Plasma had ransacked Castelia City only four weeks prior, and there was still much left undone in the city’s restoration. 

And there was, of course, the matter of Burgh. Colress pressed a finger to a scanner, relishing the cold metal against his palm. 

Burgh had absconded with that dreadful nuisance, Grimsley. The Dark-type bond’s skills were impressive, even if they were irritable. Colress had specifically requested a look at the Elite, once he was captured. 

_If_ he was captured. Fascinating a specimen as he was, Grimsley was dangerous. Too dangerous for many of the Plasma agents that they sent out, if their sudden radio silence was any indication. 

Such loss was expected, but it didn’t make it any less irritating. Some of their best agents had gone out against Grimsley, with little to show for it beyond their lives—and some did not even have that. Dangerous indeed. 

“Please provide voice identification,” a voice chimed, smooth and simple. 

“Colress Ferglaice.” The door was suddenly lit by cool blue light, before sliding to the side. It was quite impressive how quickly Ghetsis’s cronies had renovated the Castelia City Gym. The grand skyscraper that had once housed Burgh’s base of operations was now the central place from which Ghetsis stabbed into Unova—or rather, what was left of it. 

The last few holdouts against Plasma would fall within the next two months, according to Colress’s calculations—but only if they took Mistralton. The aerial city was nearly unassailable by their present troops, but perhaps, if they could manage to convince the armada of Opelucid… 

Much to consider. Colress had repeatedly attempted to sway Skyla, but there had been naught but aloofness from the crimson-haired commander. Mistralton hadn’t been a city of much importance for years, but during Ghetsis’s uprising, they’d become a bastion due to their ability to remain self-sufficient, even in the face of Ghetsis taking the supply lines. 

Colress was unworried, however. Mistralton could sustain itself indefinitely, but eventually, Plasma would rally enough troops to take to the skies and match them tit for tat. Or, alternatively, his grand Frigate would come to completion. 

It was more likely for the former to come to fruition, but he could hope. The Frigate, if completed, would be a monument to Plasma’s strength. Yet they had naught but plans, at present. Construction had yet to even begin in earnest—Ghetsis had been waiting until Castelia was theirs, until they had access to the massive manufacturing plants that Castelia boasted access to. 

A shame that Burgh hadn’t anticipated their assault, and so sent most of his troops to Nimbasa. It had been a sound gamble, but Ghetsis was a supremely talented commander, among other things. He was aided by skilled councilors, of course, but all of them had advised against a direct assault on Castelia before they had the other cities firmly in their grasp. 

Ghetsis had commanded otherwise, however. Colress had a sneaking suspicion that he had gathered intelligence from his Shadows, the three Dark-type bonds with almost preternatural talent. They were nearly identical in appearance—triplets, they claimed—with only very minute changes to distinguish each from the other. They were Ghetsis’s closest confidantes, aside from Colress himself. 

He slipped into his laboratory. The Shadows would be a threat, if he was ever ousted from Ghetsis’s service. Colress had long since devised ways to defend himself against them, of course, not the least of which were the Porygon-Z floating beside his desk and the Lucario lounging beside it. One could never be too careful. Particularly when one held the secrets that kept a certain Plasma King above reproach. 

_“I will need resources. Send your Shadows to the Black City.”_

_“What for?”_

_“That is unimportant, unless it comes to fruition. Suffice it to say that with what I design, you will have Unova well in hand before long.”_

He only hoped that Ghetsis was wise enough to make good on Colress’s promise. If not...Colress had a feeling he would be the one to take the fall for that particular failing. Mercy in Plasma was oft a phantom, and one rarely seen by those who disappointed King Ghetsis. Yet he needn’t worry, yet—there were many contingency plans, should Ghetsis grow displeased with him. 

The fear still hung, though. Years of preparation, of planning, laid in the hands of one capricious pretender-king. Colress didn’t particularly care one way or the other about Ghetsis—he was a brilliant commander, yes, but that was perhaps the extent of it. 

Ah, but power was power, and Ghetsis certainly had a lot of it. Colress settled himself in front of the wide monitor screen near the front of his laboratory and began to type a few commands in. A display appeared before him, the silhouette of two people coalescing upon it. 

“Vitals are steady,” he narrated to none but himself and the two Pokémon hovering to his side. The display showed another percentage, one that he took meticulous note of. 

_AURIC LEVELS: 98.7%_

_CONTAINMENT VALUE: 100%_

Curious. If he were the sort of man prone to such base behaviors, he might tap his fingers against the steel table below him in concentration. But he was not, so he merely puzzled it out aloud. 

“The auric levels should have restored to one hundred percent by now.” Colress selected one silhouette with a pale finger, watching as the screen went awash with red before loading the designated file. All vitals appeared to be in order, and the auric levels _should_ have returned to normal. He would know—one of his doctorate theses had been on Aura and its myriad impacts on a human body. 

“Curious indeed.” Colress flicked away from the silhouette for now, contenting to select the other one. This one was lit in shades of green, virescent lines charting the shift in auric levels. This one, too, had slightly troublesome levels, but Colress could not quite decipher _why._ Ghetsis’s assault on Castelia was four weeks past, and he’d hardly expended any effort at all in the taking of the city.

No, that particular burden had gone to Plasma’s new commander, Drayden, the former Gym Leader of Opelucid. He’d lost his title after Iris, his apprentice, dethroned him in a ferocious challenge match. Colress had watched the tapes several times—he might have felt bad for Drayden, if he cared about him at all. 

He didn’t, so it had merely been an interesting study. Iris would prove a formidable foe, if they could not win her over. Drayden was plainly no match for her, but that did not close _all_ their avenues. The now-ruler of Opelucid was rumored to keep a fierce guard, but the Shadows could slip in almost unnoticed. 

But that would create a long war of succession, and while Plasma might like to monopolize that, the Dragons of Opelucid would surely unite in their defense against them, and then their next ruler would be stronger still, backed by the unanimous force of Opelucid’s people, and equipped with Opelucid’s army, second only to Castelia’s. 

Far too many variables came with assassination. Iris was young, impressionable. Colress remained confident that they could find a way to sway her, if needed. A shame Icirrus had not fallen yet—the Ice-types were the only ones that had a hope of meeting the Dragons of Opelucid blow for blow. That was not to say they had abandoned the taking of Icirrus, but the first breaths of winter were beginning, and Icirrus was already in a perennial state of winter, thanks to some preternatural magics Brycen had access to. 

But they _did_ have access to someone that could move about the ice perhaps even easier than Brycen. 

Their test subject—Colress had designated them Blanche—had thus far passed every examination with flying colors, but he was leery of deploying them until they had been fully refined. Yet they _did_ need Icirrus; with Brycen’s force, Iris would be bested at last, and they could lay their sights on Nimbasa and Mistralton. 

Colress keyed in another set of commands, dismissing the troubling auric charts. A map of Unova appeared on the holographic display, complete with simulated Plasma forces. They moved in real-time, but none of their forces had moved in significant enough numbers to warrant a change since the last time Colress had looked. 

But he was not interested in the forces, for the most part. He merely wished to see again which cities laid unconquered in the vainglorious light of Ghetsis. The man truly was insufferable, but he was brilliant. Give and take. 

Humilau laid almost unhindered—they’d mounted a halfhearted assault, but nothing significant. It commanded no real weight in Unova; the Waterspeakers there were potent, but that was all. Marlon was said to be a man of much mystery, and a formidable commander, but Humilau’s forces were of little interest to Plasma. It might have been a nice place to start, as opposed to Aspertia, but Aspertia had a passable enough navy to make up for it. 

The one advantage Humilau _did_ enjoy was its relative proximity to the League, which Plasma had similarly yet to conquer. It would have been simple—the Trainers had no real allegiance beyond to the current Champion, and Alder was missing along with his entire Elite force—but Ghetsis had made a show of denying it.

_“The right to hold the League can only be mine when I hold Unova in my grasp. Until then, we will not move on the League.”_

_“Lord Ghetsis, surely many of the forces of Unova would lay down their arms at a Champion’s approach—”_

_“I am not here to be their Champion, bound by their rules of succession. I am their king.”_

_“Yes, my lord.”_

One must choose their battles, in Plasma. The League was inconsequential enough that it was not a battle he chose to pursue. 

“It’s like all you do is stare at that map,” a voice chimed. Colress instinctively reached for some sort of weapon, not quite frantic but not entirely comfortable. It took much to shatter his resolve—but strange voices in his laboratory bordered upon doing just that.

And then, one of the three Shadows manifested out of nothingness. Even his Lucario seemed stunned, and Colress almost sighed. The Pokémon was meant to detect the Shadows, not let them pass through. 

He narrowed his eyes at the Shadow, and they returned the gaze, expression almost subhuman. Their violet eyes showed nothing but cool dispassion, and though Colress had mastered preternatural serenity, the Shadow seemed to live in it. It took him a far longer moment than he wished to admit to puzzle out which of the three twins stood before him; this one was Badeb, he was sure, after a pause. Of the three, Badeb had always been the most reasonable—and the most dangerous. 

“What are you doing in my laboratory?” he finally questioned, voice unaffected by the strange fear that still held his mind. 

“Information gathering, of course. Lord Ghetsis wishes an update on your progress—and not one filtered through the snake’s mouth.” A cruel smile. “His words, not mine.” Badeb had always been the one with the most talent for this sort of manipulation. Ghetsis didn’t care enough to call Colress a snake, but it caught Colress off guard enough to make him think twice before speaking. 

Yet he allowed none of his hurried musings to show on his mien. He merely stepped forward, towards the Shadow, and paused, eyes narrowing. 

“You and I both know Ghetsis has no interest in this lab beyond what it can gain him, and at present he’s much too absorbed with refining the Kyurem process.” 

Badeb laughed a dark, slow laugh. “You always did have more backbone than the others. Very well. You’ve called my bluff successfully. Ghetsis did not send me.”

“Why are you here, then?” Badeb had a reputation as the secret-keeper of the Shadows. The slowest of the three to violence, Badeb had quickly become the de facto leader of the Shadow Triad. Their other sibling, Morgrave, frightened Colress far more than Badeb—where Badeb was cool and intelligent, Morgrave was violent and capricious. Morgrave carried out many of the more volatile missions for Plasma, and was the only Shadow to appear on battlefields. Nemain, the shortest of the three, was the assassin. 

Each had their own unique place in the puzzle, but the three were undeniably Ghetsis’s closest compatriots. It was rumored that he’d saved their lives, once, though whatever had threatened the Shadows enough that they’d been in danger made Colress’s spine shiver. 

“I did you a favor,” Badeb began slowly, peering at Colress. Their lithe figure cut a long shadow in the room. “You do remember Gym Leader Burgh, yes?” 

Colress narrowed his eyes further. If Badeb had killed Burgh, he would have heard about it long before the Shadow arrived here. 

“Of course. I have no time for your games today, Badeb. Get to the point.” 

Badeb smiled, amused. “I believe I’ve found your precious Bug. You wanted him alive, yes?” The Shadow approached Colress’s table, and slid a datapad onto the cold steel. He picked it up, trying his best not to look eager; Ghetsis had been absolutely furious that Colress hadn’t managed to arrange for Burgh’s capture. It shouldn’t have been Colress’s responsibility, but it was now. 

The datapad showed a photo of a hooded figure driving a blade through a Plasma grunt’s chest, flanked by a ferocious Beedrill. That Beedrill posed a unique problem to their operation—many Plasma grunts specialized in Dark-types, though it was rare for any of the grunts to be bond-holders. Besides that, Colress had heard reports that Burgh had mastered Mega Evolution with it. A rare talent, indeed, though not quite so unrealistic if reports of Burgh’s loose connection to the enigmatic Order of the Titans were true. 

He scrolled to the right. The next photo showed the hooded figure staring straight into the camera, and the face clearly belonged to Castelia’s former commander. 

“You should have opened with this information,” Colress said with a groan. “How long ago were these taken?”

“A few hours, at most. I had one of my Shades trail him, but he went where they dared not follow.”

“And where was that, if I might be so bold?”

Badeb quirked an eyebrow. “Castelia City is home to an expanse of sewers. There is only one entrance that we know of, and we’ve yet to find an exit—but we know there is one. Surely this was all in your briefing.”

Colress straightened his tie. It wasn’t, but he’d be a fool to let Badeb smell blood in the water. 

“Of course it was,” he said simply, voice like the steel he wielded. “What of them?”

“Burgh has entered them. I have my Shades searching for reports of the exit, but we’ve no luck as of yet, and I’m not sending any of them into that hellhole. It’s full of Castelian rebels—what’s left of them.” 

Badeb commanded a small force of elite Dark-type bonds called the Shades. They were primarily non-combatant, and specialized in stealth and information gathering. Dangerously good at their jobs, Badeb only sent them when they were sure no harm would come to them. A single Shade lost was years of training lost. 

“What do you want me to do about it? I don’t command any forces, and I’m not going down there myself. I might not appear to endorse Team Plasma, but someone will surely know me down there.” 

Badeb shook their head. “You mistake me. I’m not asking you to collect Burgh. Consider this a favor.” 

  
A favor. Individuals like Badeb rarely gave out favors without the expectations to cash in on it.

“And why do I need this favor? I do not desire any strings attached to me and my work.” 

“Then you chose the wrong business, Doctor Ferglacie. And the reason for this favor is very simple. I’ve heard whispers that Ghetsis has gone displeased with your inability to capture any of his desired assets. He grows suspicious of your usefulness, doctor. A mind is a terrible thing to waste. I would not wish yours to such a fate.”

With a rueful smile, Badeb pulled their violet mask back over the lower half of their face and disappeared into shadow. Lucario seemed to relax slightly, but the Pokémon was of little interest to Colress. 

_“A mind is a terrible thing to waste.”_

It was likely Badeb was bluffing, merely trying to get Colress in his pocket. And yet, there was an equal chance that the Shadow wasn’t. Colress did not wish to risk such a gamble. 

He massaged his temples. His work had grown too political, of late, too woven into appealing to Ghetsis and assuring the man of his usefulness. Was the Kyurem program not enough? Was his ingenious replication of ancient Nimbasan tech not enough? He did not have the eons of knowledge that Elesa’s family did, yet he’d replicated their most precious secret. 

Colress hissed out a sigh, shutting off the monitor. He would need to speak with Ghetsis either way. 

A favor. Colress was not a man prone to unscientific speculation, but he wagered he would regret this favor soon enough. Castelia was proving to be his most dangerous venture yet. 

* * *

“Hm. This is better than nothing, I suppose.” Ghetsis looked up at Colress, incarnadine eyes always full of that horrible hunger. Colress stared at him, flat as ever. “Are you certain nobody was seen taking these photos?”

A gaze swept towards Badeb, almost imperceptible. It was likely Ghetsis didn’t even catch it—he was staring into Burgh’s digitized mien as though it held the answers to conquering Unova. Perhaps it did. 

The Shadow offered a nod and an amused gaze. After all, Colress claimed credit for the photos—if they were false, it was his head, not Badeb’s. 

“Positive,” Colress replied, tone as steely as he could manage. Ghetsis’s Hydreigon stared at him, eyes full of the same hunger its Trainer had. Drapion hung at his side as well, but the Poison-type hardly scared Colress. 

“Good. This is good.” 

“How so, my lord? We do not have Burgh in our grasp.”

“True,” Ghetsis replied, narrowing his eyes at Colress. “You would do well not to remind me of that, _doctor._ Regardless, it is good. Look at him. He is full of rage. Rage is a weakness, one that we can exploit.” 

An idea sprung to Colress’s mind, one that might just get him out of the metaphorical dragon pit. 

“We have one of his Gym trainers,” Colress began. “I’m told he was quite close with all of them. Perhaps he can be...motivated.” 

Ghetsis smiled, snakelike and horrible. Colress felt dread crawl into his stomach—a foreign emotion, to the scientist. Even the Dreamyard’s failure had not quite filled him with such a thing. A hand almost flitted to his hair to idly adjust it, but Colress squashed the impulse before it was made known. Such demonstrative weakness would only serve to weaken whatever advantage he’d gained. 

“I relish the thought.” Ghetsis’s tongue darted out, licking his lips. The man delighted in banal cruelty—Colress merely saw it as a necessity. A means to an end. “But I do not like mingling with the Bugs. I give this task...to you. Make use of whatever resources you need. Perhaps a public execution?”

Colress forced a cold smile onto his face. Cruelty did not interest him, but he was far too intelligent to let anything but agreement cross his mien. His work had brought down men far greater than Ghetsis—he would not bespoil his plans now. 

“Far too wasteful, Lord Ghetsis. I shall make the Bug’s presence known to Burgh, tantalizingly out of his grip. I fear Castelia’s former commander is far too intelligent to be fooled by so glaringly a ruse as an execution.” Ghetsis’s face warmed with anger, but Colress was quick to soothe. 

“Yet my Lord Ghetsis’s wisdom has sparked another idea. The Bugs do not fear the dark. But perhaps they can be taught to fear the dead.” Ghost-type bonds were among the rarer bonds—second only to the Fairy-types—but they were invaluable. Plasma happened to have a Ghost-type in their employ, however. 

Ghetsis righted himself on his throne, suddenly standing much taller than he had when Colress had entered. For all the man’s faults, he did seem a proper king—at least at the moment. The ruse was almost convincing, too, only Colress could not see the strings that pulled at Ghetsis. Invisible, and yet so very effective. Even kings could be made puppets, given time. 

“Very well. Bring me Burgh, Doctor Ferglacie. I would not want to make you pay penance for failure.” Colress forced himself not to grow angry, forced himself not to swipe his lazuline gaze towards Badeb. They were alone, at least. None but the Shadow saw him brought low. 

Even that stung. 

“Yes, my lord.”

Ghetsis looked away, disinterest plain in his crimson eyes. The king was a capricious man, as ever. 

“Escort Doctor Ferglacie to the dungeon, Badeb. I will send for our necromantic friend to join you two.” 

Badeb stepped away from the wall, somehow finding their way to Colress with only a few limber strides. A wry smile worked its way across the trickster’s mien, thinly masked by the purple veil drawn across their lower face. 

“Ghetsis has grown displeased with you, as I said. You dangle precariously over the edge. Lucky that you have a friend like me, no?” They bore a faint Kalosian accent, but that could have easily been faked. It probably was, knowing the Shadow Triad. The uncertainty made Colress uncomfortable. 

“He is displeased with everyone,” Colress replied with forced dispassion. “We were to have Icirrus in hand before winter, so that the assault on Opelucid was smooth.” 

“Yet you disagreed, didn’t you? You told Ghetsis that you believed the Icirrans would live and die with Brycen, or not at all.”

Colress pursed his lips. “I did not disagree with the assault, merely the execution. Ghetsis modified his plans as a result, which means we have not moved in truth yet. But we _must_ make a show of force to Brycen.” 

Badeb laughed darkly. “You do not calculate for human error, Ferglacie.” 

“Incorrect. Human error is a variable I have factored in—but I worked with Brycen, once.” He’d worked with almost all of the Gym Leaders during the Dreamyard experiments. A hand moved to adjust his glasses. “He inspires drive and loyalty in his soldiers. If we were to kill him, they would revolt.” 

  
Colress anticipated Badeb’s next words before the Shadow could even say them.

“And no, the Zorua tactic would not work half as well as Morgrave seemed to think. Your sibling has little finesse.” 

“True,” Badeb said smoothly. Perhaps they were smarter than Colress gave them credit for. “But Morgrave’s lack of finesse is well compensated by their other talents, no? You have seen my sibling in combat.”

Indeed he had. Morgrave fought with a ferocious, unbridled darkness—so very contrary to their siblings. Badeb’s style leaned more towards cool dispassion and strategy, while Nemain, the assassin, moved subtly amongst the shadows. Morgrave was undoubtedly the best in open combat.

“Regardless of Morgrave’s competence in battle, their strategy was flawed, plain and simple. Icirrans are notoriously distrusting—even of their own leadership. Who’s to say that they would not simply rise up and overthrow the fake Brycen? Zorua are gifted, true, and possessed of unnatural intellect, but even they cannot execute an impersonation flawlessly. And there are ways to detect a Zorua, as you well know.” 

Badeb laughed darkly. “Indeed I do. Regardless, Brycen must be dealt with. How would you propose it be handled, wise doctor?”

Colress knew he was being mocked, but he had thought of an answer long before now. “Normally, I would say we simply leave Icirrus untouched, but we have found ourselves at an impasse with Opelucid, and the small vanguard of Dragons Drayden brought with them is insufficient for an assault on Mistralton. That being said, Brycen is not a fool, nor is he one to senselessly throw his weight behind an ideal. If he recognizes he is outmatched, he will lay down his arms.”

The Shadow tilted their head, catlike. “We have the third largest standing force in Unova, perhaps second now that Castelia’s forces are splintered. What more could Brycen want?”

“Nimbasa,” Colress replied flatly. “If even great and powerful Nimbasa falls to us, Icirrus is ours. Bloodlessly, I might add.”

“But what, as you say, is to stop Icirrus from revolting against Brycen?”

“They would revolt if a fake Brycen were to decree an alliance with Plasma, but the real Brycen knows his people. I am confident most of them would rally behind him, and those that didn’t would have nowhere to hide. The Ice Mask is not a forgiving man.” 

Badeb hummed thoughtfully. “And what if we were to have Champion Alder?” 

“Alder would never align himself with us. He is too proud.”

“Humor me, Ferglacie.”

Colress paused. Alder and Brycen had always had a shockingly good rapport for as long as Colress had known the Ice Mask, but that was before Alder disappeared from his duties. 

“I doubt it would have much impact, beyond setting Brycen on edge. Alder and his Sun Warrior vanguard are not exactly the kind of presence the Ice Mask would welcome on his turf.”

The catlike Shadow at his side yawned, hands drifting towards their long, ice-white hair. “A shame nobody’s seen hide nor tail of the Sun Warriors, then. It was said they could bring down an army three times their size.”

Colress had only met Alder once, near the end of the Dreamyard, and even that had been terrifying enough. The Sun Warriors were his sworn warriors, created when Alder had ascended to the throne of Pokémon Champion. Unova was not quite so traditionalist as Kanto and Johto, but the Champion did still keep a military force, and commanded the League. In times of war, they could override the Elites’ council, as well. There hadn’t been a serious war in Unova in many years before Plasma’s revolution—the last had been the civil war, but some of the Gym Leaders hadn’t been old enough to recall that. 

One might have thought that the lack of wars would have made Unovans soft, but many of the Gym Leaders trained extensively, and Unova had always boasted profound military strength. Some of the Gym Leaders also contributed their forces, at the League’s discretion, to Unova’s overseas efforts, though those were few and far between. There were also skirmishes, at times, over territory and Pokémon in certain regions. 

Instead, however, Plasma had endured a bloody war when they first began their assault. It had mellowed, now, with many of the cities either subjugated or on the defense. Opelucid was the only city, ironically, that seemed entirely unconcerned with Plasma. 

But they would be, soon enough. Once Icirrus was well in hand, Colress would add Blanche into the mix. Opelucid would kneel. 

“Lost in thought, doctor? Trying to calculate a way to avoid a meeting twixt your head and the headsman's axe?”

“Please. Lord Ghetsis is not so base. I would be killed much more efficiently. Injection, perhaps.”

The thought of it made his blood run cold, but Badeb must not see such. Everything relied on perception in Team Plasma. 

“Fair enough. Our ghastly friend should be joining us soon, doctor. I will leave you to your work in the meantime.” Badeb keyed in a code, laying his hand on the scanner. The code was easy enough to memorize, but Colress had no way of knowing whether or not his hand had an authorized scan. His clearance level meant he _should_ have access anywhere, but this prison was a secret facility. 

The doors parted with a slight hiss. 

“Are you not joining me?” Colress kept his tone neutral; a duke blithely asking another to dance. Badeb obliged. 

“Not quite yet,” the Shadow whispered with a wink. Colress frowned and stepped inside, allowing those cold steel doors to slide shut behind him. 

A holographic screen was the only light in the cell. At the periphery of his vision, Colress saw a shape, bound in chains—chains made of a pearlescent material, one Colress’s metal magics had no command over. Ghetsis left no room for loose ends. 

He approached the holographic screen. It was his technology, of course, demonstrating the vitals of the prisoner, as well as general information on the captive Bug. It had his auric levels, too, but Colress cared little for the auric potential of a lone Bug. 

“Trainer Jack,” he began, voice flat. The captive perked his head up slightly, chains rattling. Bugs had no fear of the dark—they were all able to see in the shadows. Colress flicked on the bright lights, and the Bug—Jack—winced away from the light. 

The man had been chained to the wall, almost animalistic in his bindings. A ring of the same lustrous metal was wrapped around his neck, chain looped into the others. 

“I take it you know who I am.”

“Colress Ferglacie,” Jack growled, unkempt crimson hair catching the light. “You’ve got a reputation. Not a good one.” The Bug almost snarled at him. Colress couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

“People who get results frequently have reputations, yes.” Colress pulled up the singular chair in the room, settling in with a datapad. A simulated screen appeared on the device, showing a similar display to the holographic keypad in the corner. 

Various buttons would elicit responses from the technology in the cell, but Colress had learned that Bugs were notoriously hard to break. He was merely priming Jack for the arrival of the Ghost-type. 

“Would it please you to know we have the location of Burgh Bisset?” Jack grew pallid, olive skin turning wan in the fluorescent lights. 

“But you don’t have him,” Jack finally said, not quite so confident as before. Colress mentally took note of the show of weakness—it was possible that it was a subterfuge, but Burgh’s Trainers had a reputation that suggested otherwise. Their Leader was another story, of course.

“True. Yet it’s only a matter of time, don’t you think? The Castelia Sewers are only so big, after all.” 

Jack seemed to regain some of his ground, taking in a deep breath. “You idiots will never figure your way through the sewers, and even if you could, Burgh would tear all of your Plasma forces to shreds.”

“You’re powerful, Jack. I can sense that much.” Jack would never yield, of course. Once the necromancer had finished with the Bug, however, he would be a shell. Perfect for Colress to reprogram, to remold. Plasma had so few Bugs in their employ, and they made an excellent defense against Dark-types. He would request the prisoner transfer once the interrogation was over—Ghetsis would have no reason to deny him. 

“So why follow him? Why go to such great lengths for him? He’s a liar, Jack. Surely you can realize that. Let me help you.”

Jack spat. “Fuck you. Burgh is the greatest commander Castelia’s ever had.”

“And yet, he fell. And he left you, Jack, left you all alone in the cold dark. Plasma could help you. You need but let us.”

“Not happening, asshole. Quit your creepy shit and get out.”

Colress felt a laugh bubble out of his chest, one he did not care to stop. “Oh, Jack. You should not say such things.”

The door began to part even as Colress spoke. He dropped his voice, as though telling the Bug a secret. 

“What comes after is a thousand times worse,” he murmured. Jack went pallid as a figure entered the room. 

The Ghost-type bond was a strange individual. They had hair the color of exploding stars, a white so incandescent it nearly burned his eyes, and sharp green eyes—dangerous in their intelligence. Colress had been told they were rather attractive, once, that they were almost human, once. Now, haunted—or perhaps empowered—by their communion with the dead, the Ghost-type moved through the world as though only half in it. 

Colress swore he heard weeping as he regarded the ghastly figure. 

“I am Vesper,” the figure rasped, voice like shredded silk. 

That was not their true name, but when last Colress had asked, Vesper had merely replied that it was their true name, now. Colress had elected not to press the issue further.

Vesper seemed to glide across the floor, deep white robes barely touching the cold tile. The Ghost-type bond moved as though shrouded in myths, laced in archaic practice. Perhaps a result of the ghosts with which they communed, whispering of how things were when Titans shattered the earth and ruled the world. 

Colress settled back in his chair, but Badeb, unflappable Badeb, slipped out of the room before Vesper could reach Jack, who had now begun squirming, eyes fearful of the ghastly figure that approached him. 

“You have withheld secrets from Plasma,” Vesper replied. “Such is a great crime. It will be your last.” A snakelike smile cracked the necromancer’s mien. 

“Do not worry. I am told it does not hurt for very long.” Wan fingertips clutched Jack’s head with the gentleness of a mother lifting its child’s head. 

It was not long before the screams began. 

* * *

Burgh hated the stench of the sewers, more than anything. It had been years since he’d last used them—the previous Gym Leader of Castelia had grown despotic, and Burgh had led the rebellion from within these very walls—and yet the stink hadn’t lessened. In fact, it might have gotten worse. He did, at the very least, know which waterways were clean and which were decidedly _not_ , but it did not make the trip any less enjoyable. Sulfur stung his nose, among other things. 

He had been in the sewers for almost three days, now, accompanied only by two of his hooded Gym Trainers—Anders, who had escaped alongside Burgh and Grimsley, and Clarence, who had somehow made it to the sewers days before Burgh. 

The three of them walked along in relative silence. Burgh felt naked without Beedrill at his side, but nobody thought twice of him without it. Better that those in the sewers, even his allies, did not yet know where he lingered. He had been followed to the sewers, as he well knew, but Plasma did not yet know the myriad exits of the sewers. 

There were puzzles blocking many of the hallways, and the one that held the exit he sought was locked behind a puzzle only a Bug could solve, with their preternatural senses and night-sight. 

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

The silence wasn’t good for Burgh, but it was necessary. In the silence, he recalled everyone had lost in Plasma’s assault. Gary, slaughtered by a Fire-type under Plasma’s command. Jack, captured by one of those horrid Shadows. 

Another smell crossed his heightened senses. Honey. They were close, now. Close to the puzzle that would grant them freedom. 

“Are you certain Icirrus is where we must go, Burgh?” Anders’s voice was hushed, even in the lonesome dark of the sewers. They had no light, for Bugs did not need it. Nobody could sneak up on them in this darkness. 

Burgh nodded, the fabric of his hood chafing against his neck with the motion. “Yes. Brycen’s city is the most secure, besides Mistralton, and neither you nor I wish to prostrate ourselves on Skyla’s mercy. She is kind, yes, but Plasma has made her cautious. I wouldn’t be shocked if she turned us away. Brycen will not.” Burgh’s fingers tapped lightly against the sword hidden within the folds of his cloak. 

Brycen would honor the pact made twixt Castelia and Icirrus, he was certain. The Ice Mask and his people were ever bound by tradition, by decorum. It was that centuries-old pact that had been the reason behind this very passage through the sewers—it was unknown to most everyone, save the Gym Leaders of each respective city and perhaps a handful of others. Accessible only through puzzles that required either the magic of an Ice-type user or the supernatural senses of a Bug, the passage hadn’t been used in decades—and it showed. Stray rocks littered the ground, and what water was still left had gone stagnant long ago, algae blooming over it. 

“I don’t want to go to Mistralton anymore than you do. It simply makes me nervous. The Icirrans are notoriously insular.”

“There is nowhere else we can go. Humilau is too far, Nimbasa is too obvious, and Opelucid’s position is untenable. Icirrus will at least survive the winter, that much is certain. Ghetsis would be a fool to march on the Crystal Spires during the colder months, and they haven’t mobilized significantly enough for them to be mounting an assault yet. Ghetsis is strengthening his base in the winter months. It’s a sound strategic choice.” 

Clarence nodded on his left. “Burgh’s right. Icirrus is our best shot.”

“I suppose. Has the Order dispatched anyone, yet?”

Burgh sighed inwardly. The Order certainly had, but they did so enjoy sticking their fingers in every honey pot that caught their eye. “I am sure they have,” he replied, tone clipped. “But their resources are not mine, anymore.”

“My apologies, Leader Burgh. I didn’t mean to stir up old tensions.”

Burgh waved a hand dismissively. The Order and he were not enemies, not by any stretch of the word, but Burgh had left their membership after several questionable missions. He kept regular contact with many of their Unovan members, however, and Grimsley had been the one to withdraw him from his tower. Without the Dark-type master, he’d have likely perished at the top of his Gym, or been made captive. 

His fingers twitched against the sword once more, holstered where he used to keep his paintbrushes. War made monsters out of men, but Burgh had required little prompting to embrace what he had once buried. 

The scent of honey grew stronger still. His lieutenants had picked it up, now—their senses weren’t quite as strong as his own, but they were still leagues superior to non-Bugs. They sniffed, noses in the air.

“You two sound like dogs,” he said with a chuckle. Clarence nudged him lightly. Burgh could not deny that the situation was quite rotten, but at least he had two of his compatriots at his side. The half-darkness of the sewers, even pierced by his supernatural senses, might have felt incredibly lonely without them. 

“Mm. Is that real honey?”

“Yes, though I would not advise eating it. There are two sets of puzzles—one for the Ice-wielders of Icirrus, and one for the Bugs of Castelia. Ours involves a Vespiquen’s hive.”

Clarence groaned. “Why does it always have to be puzzles? Our forefathers were a bunch of assholes.”

“Fair,” Burgh began with a snort, “but I far prefer puzzles to random individuals being able to enter Castelia and Icirrus by whim, especially now. We must take great care to lock the puzzle door properly once we leave.”

Burgh had pored over the ancient tomes upon his ascension to Gym Leader of Castelia. His predecessor, a stern, hawk-nosed man by the name of Viktor, fourth in a line of succession for Gym Leaders, hadn’t much cared to pay them mind, but he’d been deposed. Burgh made a point to put Castelia back on its original path. 

He had dialed back the military in Castelia—they still retained the largest standing force, or at least they _had_ —and had specialized them more, creating branches that were much easier contained than the great warmongering pit Viktor had amassed. Castelia had expanded greatly under Viktor and his family, but at great cost. The Pinwheel Forest, once a place of refuge, had become nearly feral and untamed, full of angry, abandoned war-Bugs and riled up Grass-type Pokémon. It was nearly untraversable, unless you were a Bug-type or a Grass-type, or guided by one. 

There was little he could do for Pinwheel, of course, but he could at least dial back the rest. It had made him well-loved, after a fashion. Enough so that he felt safe in Castelia. Safe enough to send half of his troops to Nimbasa—a poor strategic choice, on his part. Elesa and he had both anticipated an attack there, not Castelia. 

Perhaps it was for the best. He’d saved as many of his men as he could, then. That had been his first command once Plasma infiltrated his Gym. 

_“Leader Burgh, Ghetsis has entered the complex.”_

_The cloak that marked him a Gym Leader felt a mountain upon his back, emblazoned with the symbol of Castelia._

_“Call the evacuation, Clarence. Have any men still fighting flee the city, and tell them to bring as many civilians as they can.”_

_“Leader Burgh-”_

_“Now. I won’t have more innocents die for my pride.”_

Burgh tapped along his sword. Honey stung his nostrils—the scent felt acrimonious, now, contrasted with so much death. The ancient tomes had taught him much, but nobody had taught him how to forgive his failure. Maybe he wasn’t meant to. Maybe he wasn’t meant to sleep so well, anymore.

“Just up ahead,” Burgh murmured, forcing himself to remove his hand from the blade. There would be time enough for the weapon. 

An intricate door laid ahead, inlaid with ancient texts. It was a long-dead dialect, used by the ancient Unovans before the Twin Kings had arisen. Only Gym Leaders and scholars knew it, now. It was perfect for their ciphered communication. 

He thumbed the hilt of his sword. He hoped dearly that the other leaders were alright—Cheren was unflappable, but the Striaton triplets were likely captives, if not worse. Unless they’d managed to abscond before aught had gone too awry. 

Clay was likely a lost cause. He was either dead or captive, or perhaps both—though Burgh wagered he was too important for Plasma to kill outright. If Colress had as much say as Burgh figured, though, it was a fifty-fifty shot that the Gym Leader of Driftveil still drew breath. Black City had been stormed, too, though Burgh hadn’t quite figured out why. Elesa’s family kept relics there, but nothing important, certainly. 

_Whatever helps you sleep at night,_ he murmured to himself as he walked to the door. 

A bit of dust had collected on the ancient sigils. He blew out a bit of air, watching as the dust gusted away at the slight kiss of air, laying bare the symbols below. 

_“By elden grace doth thou strideth forth. Ware thee the traps beyond, for unforgiving is their sting. If thou doth come in search of peace, let the sublime mercy of lions be invoked.”_

Burgh sighed, collecting himself. His Gym Leader cloak fell in cascades off of his shoulders, dark green cloth kissing the wet stone below. With a single motion, his sword—a sword borne by many Gym Leaders before him, though modified, now, to fit with the modern age—found its way just before the door. There was a hollowed out space for it, the hilt worked with the open maw of some bestial creature. Burgh pressed it into the space. 

The edges of the door went awash with virescent light, and Burgh hissed out a breath. 

“Magic,” Clarence breathed.

“Not magic.” Anders, too, seemed enraptured, even as he responded to Clarence’s musings. “Technology.”

  
“Perhaps it is both,” came Burgh’s reply, heavy with burdens. 

The door slid open, and inside laid the puzzle. 

“I was perhaps wrong about it being a puzzle,” Burgh said simply, folding his hands at his waist. “Think of it more like a trial.” 

“..I take it back. Puzzles sound less dangerous.”

“Be quiet, Clarence. We could still be under watch,” Anders hissed. 

Twin paths opened behind the door. One was emblazoned with the symbol of Icirrus, the other with Castelia’s symbol. Burgh turned towards the one with his city’s insignia upon it—a wreath of laurels, half-veiled by twin swords. Peace and victory. He rested a hand upon the door, pushing it open.

He was immediately met by a flash of bright green light. The trio of Bugs stepped inside, and the distinct sounds of a Vespiquen’s frightful hum filled the air. The Beehive Pokémon surged forward, bearing down upon the three with frightening speed. 

Burgh sucked in a breath, and raised his sword skywards. The laurel workings of it caught the green light, refracting the virescence in a thousand directions. Vespiquen stopped short in its tracks, inches from Burgh’s mien. Its arms raised to touch Burgh’s face, clawlike appendages making small incisions in his cheeks. 

The twin incisors upon its head twitched, smelling the air, tasting his blood. The Pokémon’s incarnadine eyes stared straight into Burgh’s, full of ancient, animalistic rage. 

And then, it raised its arms. Had Burgh done something wrong? Was he going to be struck down, now? He didn’t have enough time to reach for a Poké Ball, and so he almost threw his sword forward, almost dug it into the Vespiquen’s carapace with no thought for the consequences. 

Something strange happened, then. The Vespiquen almost _nodded,_ floating back from whence it had come—the strange hole in the ceiling was home to a large Combee hive, kept here for many years. As part of the Rites, Burgh had traveled into this very cellar to replenish the Combee hive’s nutrients, as well as check on the health of the hive. 

And now he was leaving it, perhaps for the last time. Burgh was safe in the knowledge that Plasma, at least, could not get to the Tiny Bee Pokémon, or to their queen. The tomes pertaining to the Rites, as well as aught else he had thought relevant to the ancient histories, had been squirreled away in his satchel when they’d first heard word of Plasma entering the city. Burgh had not expected an assault like the one they’d endured, but he was ever paranoid.

Thankfully, it paid off. For once.

_“You tote around as many shadows as I do, kid. Gotta start letting go, soon.”_

_“I am only three years your junior, Grimsley. Pray do not refer to me as_ kid _ever again. Especially not in my Gym.”_

“That was weird,” Clarence chimed. Burgh heard Anders whispering something ferociously, and bit back a chuckle. It was good to have them by his side. 

* * *

The journey into Icirrus took another few hours before they, at long last, reached the grand doors that led into the Crystal City. Unlike Castelia’s exit doors, which were ascetic and blended almost entirely into the dark brick of the sewers, Icirrus’s were made of the strange, opalescent crystals that made up many of their structures. At first blush, it looked and felt as though glass, but it was sturdier than many metals. 

And unlike Castelia’s, these doors led into one of the many spires of the Crystal City. Dangerous to be caught there without an invitation—but Burgh knew Brycen had only one guard stationed before the Exodus Gate, as he called it, and it was one of his closest advisors, a woman by the name of Mikiko. 

He only hoped Mikiko remembered him. 

The method of opening the Exodus Gate was far less sophisticated than Castelia’s. Burgh did naught but enter a simple string of numbers into a keypad, and then stepped back and watched as the crystal doors slid open with little ceremony. 

Despite all their other traditions, Icirrans did still value bluntness when appropriate. 

Burgh stepped through. 

And was immediately met by a sword inches from his face. If this were any city but Icirrus, it probably would have been a gun. Somehow, Burgh was thankful for the difference. 

The woman holding the sword was a wraithlike figure, with black hair down to her hips, periodically interwoven with crystals. Mikiko was Brycen’s closest advisor, and was often credited with as many of their military victories as the Ice Mask himself.

Mikiko wore a theatrical mask of crystal over her features, as did all native Icirrans. Hers was a full-face mask, an honor reserved only for the closest of Brycen’s court—for he did still call it a court. If Castelia was the spear by which Unova flew into the modern age, Icirrus was a bastion of traditionalism. Mikiko’s mask bore the sigils of her House—Zekrom, he’d forgotten they still had _Houses_ , modeled in a mimicry of a Swanna’s delicate mien.

  
Yet the woman bearing it was quite the opposite of delicate, to put it simply. 

“Mikiko,” Burgh breathed. “It is me. Sheathe your weapon.” 

The ebon-haired commander squinted, eyes barely visible through the crescent-like slits in her mask. 

“Gym Leader Burgh. I had thought it perhaps a ruse.” Mikiko dipped into a half-curtsy—more than necessary for a Gym Leader in Icirrus, but she had always been more politically savvy than most of Brycen’s generals. Perhaps that was why she’d lasted so long. 

Clarence and Anders were blessedly silent. 

“His Majesty believed you dead or worse. It is a great pleasure to see ourselves disabused of the notion.”

Burgh smiled. “Surely you understand the urgency, then. I must meet with Brycen posthaste.”

Mikiko’s eyes never left Burgh’s, save to swipe to Anders and Clarence, and then back onto Burgh’s with a meaning in the icy depths. Burgh nodded minutely. 

_Not here,_ those eyes said. He trusted the two Bugs completely, but Icirrans were suspicious of ants in the same room as them. Burgh would oblige, for now. 

“His Majesty,” Mikiko began, using an honorific Burgh had never once heard her use when it was just him, Brycen, and Mikiko in one room, “is presently unavailable. I will take you to the royal wing, however. You may make use of the extra room.” 

She looked at Clarence and Anders. “Your compatriots must sleep in the guest wing. I will have a room prepared.” 

Burgh hesitated, but his protests died upon his lips. He needed Brycen more than the Ice Mask needed him, and Icirrus was his turf. He would acquiesce, for now.

“Very well,” Burgh responded, sufficing to keep his tone mildly clipped.

* * *

Burgh’s room was grandiose, even by his standards. It was comprised of three rooms—a sitting room to entertain guests, a bedroom larger than most apartments in Castelia, and a private study. Once Burgh had settled his few belongings in the room, he saw that an outfit had already been laid out on the bed, as well as a note from Mikiko. 

_For you,_ it read in her terrifyingly neat scrawl. _You must be cautious, here in Icirrus. Things are not as they seem. I have attached a pair of scissors and some dye for your hair. Use them._

Things are not as they seem? Burgh hummed. That could only mean danger, here in the Crystal City, a city almost known more for its secrets than for the blizzard that raged throughout all the days of the year—with one exception for the Festival of Summer. The preternatural blizzard was a result of many things, not the least of which were Brycen’s exceptionally powerful Abomasnow and the terrifying magics Brycen’s family had claim to. 

“The mask is worked with the sigils of Brycen’s House,” came Mikiko’s voice. Burgh jumped. “None will bother you when you wear it.”

Burgh turned to face the woman, who was now maskless. She was beautiful—even Burgh could tell that—though her icy blue eyes spoke of more secrets under her tongue than most men knew in their lifespans. 

“But before you go, there is something you must know.”

One might have heard a pin drop in the silence that descended upon Burgh’s room in the instant before Mikiko’s revelation.

“Someone is trying to kill Brycen.” 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for the delay in publishing Chapter 2. I will do my best to maintain a more expedient posting schedule, but thank you all for sticking with Cyclamen! More is certainly to come. Additionally, keep an eye out for concurrent works published in the Cyclamen-verse. Massive shoutout to everyone that's helped me along this process, and thank you to everyone who's let me bounce ideas off of them, beta read for this chapter's many incarnations. 
> 
> Stay tuned for more, and as always, you can find me on Tumblr at manaflush and on Twitter at @galardevoir.


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